My poor mother begged for a sheep but raised a wolf.
Michelle K., Four Rhythms. (via paralvman)
knoxaf:
“A fan?” Oh boy, Knox did not have the heart to tell… the hell is his name again? Leaning over to check the paper work on the desk; Tate. How was he going to tell Tate there was only a crappy air system in the building and no fans… He’s got an idea. “Say no more, I got you,” Knox replies a bit too fast. Picking up a blank piece of paper from the printer at the desk and Knox gets to work. After folding the paper and taking a staple to the end of it; he made a fan.
Oh, this guy was gonna kill him. Knox knows it or he might get a chuckle; he’s taking the risk. “This should work for you,” he spoke while getting up from his seat. Walking towards the cell and presented his hard work; a paper fan. “There is plenty more where this came from.”
Tate’s eyes stayed closed while he heard the officer rustle around, not paying much attention as he assumed he was fetching a fan. His head was pounding, the whole act of getting arrested sobering him up way too much for his own liking. The feeling of the cold wall in that cell was becoming a little too familiar and he let out a rather loud sigh. At the officer’s words he opened his eyes again, squinting at him in the sudden bright light until he realized he had just made a makeshift paper fan. “This is what my taxes pay for. Perfect.” He mumbled, not making a move to retrieve the paper fan. Instead Tate reached down and peeled his shirt off, completely forgetting about the scarring he normally made sure to cover up carefully. He was too drunk and too hot to care at this point. Leaning back once again, his eyes closed. The bright lights in the cell were not helping his pounding head.
I’ve lost too many people and too much faith to give a fuck.
Hedonist Poet (via hedonistpoet)
he can’t outrun the sentiments that poison his body. they make him sick, vulnerable, w e a k. they rot him inside-out.
( && )
how do you heal from such internal damage? in reality, he knows he can’t. ——— but there’s no way he’ll be eaten alive by his own conscience.
he resorts to drugs, to alcohol. to the numbness it gives him no matter how temporary.
I scrub and scrub until my body bleeds, convince myself I'm coming clean, forget and ignore who I used to be. That kid is never coming back.
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